


Broadened Horizons

by Arrynae9



Series: The Grey Alliance [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Grey Harry Potter, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Ravenclaw Hermione Granger, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrynae9/pseuds/Arrynae9
Summary: Otherwise known as The Boy Who Lived is a Danger Magnet (and his Friends are Very Tired).A retelling of the Prisoner of Azkaban with a Slytherin Harry who sees in shades of grey but still has that hero complex.Read books one and two first to fully understand the characters.
Relationships: (just friendship for now but relationship will come later), Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Grey Alliance [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/553504
Comments: 28
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god is this me updating? And it hasn't been three years since the last one? Amazing.  
> Seriously though I hope you guys enjoy this story! I'm really excited for this one, Prisoner of Azkaban is my favourite book/movie, and I hope you enjoy where I go with it!  
> As always, to all of you who have stuck with me since book one - I love you all, and to any new readers - welcome! I hope you like what you find :)  
> (Also if I missed any tags please let me know, I'm so bad at tagging lmao.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial of Lucius Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! <3

The morning of the trial of Lucius Malfoy was sombre. The splendour of Malfoy Manor lay quiet – within, the only noise came from the putter of house elves, the discontented murmur of enchanted portraits, and the hushed voices of two young wizards.

Harry Potter did not consider himself particularly adept at giving comfort, yet everything in him felt, at this moment, desperate to try. Perched carefully atop an expensive chaise within Draco’s bedroom (the luxury of the Manor still uncomfortably foreign to him, despite several weeks within its walls), Harry watched as his best friend rearranged his robes for the hundredth time that morning.

The young Malfoy heir took a steadying breath and peered at his reflection once more. The mirror, enchanted and twice the size at least of the fateful Mirror of Erised from Harry’s first year, helpfully told Draco that the dark green of his formal robes was deeply flattering. Draco gave no reaction. Harry, not for the first time in his weeks at Draco’s ancestral home, wondered if the mirror had a ‘mute’ function.

“It’ll be fine,” said Draco, again. “Totally fine.”

Harry picked his words carefully. “Your mum said this was more of a formality, remember? With Ginny’s memory in evidence and the testimonies Lady Zabini found, plus your dad’s… history, he’s going away for certain. And they still might use veritaserum.”

Draco nodded jerkily. “Right. Exactly.”

He turned finally, though his eyes didn’t quite meet Harry’s.

“I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I Harry?”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but Draco didn’t seem to expect a reply.

“Especially after last year, everything that happened because of- because of what he did, and I just-” Draco’s voice began to waver, and Harry stood immediately to wrap his arms around his friend. Quieter, Draco said, “I just want Mother to be happy again. What if she’s just doing this for me?”

Harry pulled back just to meet Draco’s eye. “You’ll be alright. Both of you. Besides,” he quirked a small smile, “I don’t think anyone could make Lady Malfoy do something she doesn’t want to – not even you.”

That was a little bit of a lie – Harry silently believed that Narcissa Malfoy would burn the world down for her son, and it was that fierce, unquestionable love that above anything else, even her saving Harry from the Dursleys, made her the most trusted adult in his life.

Draco nodded, though it was slightly shaky. “You’re right, of course. Everything will be fine.” He smiled, the tiny tender thing that had grown more familiar to Harry the longer the spectre of Lucius Malfoy was gone from the Manor. “I’m glad you’re here, Harry.”

Harry simply dragged him close again, and let Draco match his breathing to his own.

Eventually they could postpone no longer. Harry and Draco made their way down to the Manor’s floo room, hands clasped together tightly. Draco would let go once they entered the Ministry, Harry knew, and he held no judgement for it – the carefully cultivated image of the Malfoy heir left no room for public weakness, especially not at his father’s trial. Still, Harry found himself dreading letting go; he found the thought of withdrawing any level of comfort from his best friend to be entirely upsetting.

The Lady of the Manor awaited them next to the magnificent fireplaces reserved for the Floo Network. Narcissa Malfoy looked stunningly beautiful, as always, standing elegantly in flowing dress robes of Acromantula silk. Had Harry not known any better, he would have thought she were going to some royal event, not the criminal trial of her own husband. But that was the Malfoy matriarch all over – powerful and lovely, in the face of anything. She and Draco were quite alike in that way, Harry thought.

Narcissa’s façade softened just slightly at the approach of her son, and warmth melted the icy blue of her eyes. “Are you alright, my darling?”

Draco nodded, pureblood mask firmly in place, though he seemed grateful to accept the tight hug and kiss on the forehead from his mother nonetheless.

Narcissa turned to Harry next. She knelt before him as she had Draco. The marble floors of the Manor were perpetually spotless, but Harry had to resist a nervous glance at her dress nonetheless.

“Are you alright, dear?” Narcissa asked gently.

Harry nodded.

The Lady Malfoy smiled at him fondly and pressed the palm of one gloved hand against his cheek. She lowered her voice so it wouldn’t carry to Draco – though Draco seemed more focussed on his breathing and his mask. “Thank you for being here for my son, Harry. If it gets too much, let me know.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He nodded again.

Narcissa’s eyes turned stern, though no less fond. “Promise me.”

“I promise, Narcissa,” said Harry, forcing back the emotion clogging his throat. Narcissa had been nothing but kind in the time he had been allowed in her home, and he was forever grateful to her, but the sensation of a gentle, motherly figure still overwhelmed him sometimes. He had no idea how Draco accepted her affections so easily – he might have been jealous, if he hadn’t seen himself how dearly Draco loved his mother as much as she doted on him.

Narcissa kissed his forehead as she had Draco’s, and stood. Her robes, through magic or her own inherent elegance, remained smooth and free of any wrinkling.

“Well then,” said Narcissa. “I’ll await you both on the other side. Keep your speech clear – we don’t want either of you landing in some alley across the country.”

With that, she took a handful of floo powder from the golden pot, and stepped into the fireplace.

“Ministry of Magic,” she called, and disappeared in a burst of green flame.

Harry gave Draco’s hand one last squeeze before Draco followed suit – his voice did not waver.

Harry took a deep breath himself before grabbing a small fistful of floo powder. He was looking forward to the travel about as much as he was looking forward to the trial itself – despite Narcissa and Draco’s best efforts, Harry was unsuccessful in making the landing from floo transport as seamless and graceful as the Malfoys made it appear. On one memorable occasion, while practicing flooing from the Manor to the Malfoy summer chateau in France, he had stumbled out of the fireplace and fallen flat on his face. Narcissa had had to use _eipskey_ to heal his nose after he broke it on the marble floors – Harry had felt terrible, but at least it had made Draco laugh.

Still, there was no use postponing it, not when the Malfoys were waiting for him on the other side. Harry lifted his chin, steeled his stomach, and spoke as clearly as he could:

“Ministry of Magic!”

The world burst into green, magical fire tickling Harry’s skin as the world turned upside down and sideways and his body attempted to turn itself inside out-

And then Harry was spat out onto the black tile floors of the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium, and the world span back into normal view. Harry stumbled, but maintained his footing. He took a moment in his head to thank every deity and great historical wizard he could name.

Narcissa and Draco were waiting a few steps away, pureblood masks firmly in place, and Harry made sure to fix his own in place before he joined them. Around them, wizards and witches were staring openly – there was no keeping the trial of such a public figure as Lucius Malfoy out of the papers. Everyone knew, and everyone was watching. The two Malfoys did not react, nor did they grace any of their spectators with a glance. Harry walked alongside them, an unbreakable line of pride and sophistication, into the elevators and to Level Ten – the Courtrooms.

Lucius’ trial would be held in Courtroom One, ostensibly for timetabling reasons, but in practicality because it was the largest of the Ministry’s courtrooms. The trial was to have quite the audience.

Harry and the Malfoys entered the courtroom with their heads held high. With high, circular walls of black marble and plaster, stands stacked high – and mostly full, Harry noted, though the trial was not set to begin for another half hour – and a single pensieve in the centre of the floor, the courtroom rather resembled a modified amphitheatre. Harry thought it seemed cold, and dark, and depressing.

Already in the stands, easily identifiable from his garish blue robes enchanted with flying broomsticks zooming over the fabric, was Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster was chatting amiably with the witches and wizards around him, seemingly unaware of the trio who had just entered the courtroom. Harry wasn’t convinced – Dumbledore may have appeared a friendly old man, but he was a powerful wizard. Narcissa had discussed the range of Dumbledore’s influence with Harry and Draco over the first half of the break. Harry wasn’t about to forget it anytime soon.

Harry turned his gaze from the Headmaster and scanned the stands for other familiar faces. Huddled into one corner of the witness stand were the heads of the Weasley family, with Ginny, tiny and scared, between them. Her mother was whispering something into her ear, and her father had an arm tightly around the young girl’s shoulders.

Several rows up, Lady Adrienna Zabini, Blaise’s mother, sat with three empty seats to her right – she gestured Harry and the Malfoys over with a subtle nod of her sharp jaw. Harry had only met the Lady Zabini briefly, a few times in the leadup to Lucius’ trial. Her and Narcissa were close, as he understood it, yet Lady Zabini did not put him at ease as Narcissa did. With sharp, stunning dark features and eyes black enough to swallow you whole, there was only one word that came to mind when Harry thought of Blaise’s mother – _dangerous_. There was little doubt in his mind that the rumours surrounding Adrienna Zabini were true; her long list of mysteriously deceased husbands had given her the nickname the Black Widow, and Harry thought it suited her perfectly.

Also present were some of his other friends parents, though not all of them were such a welcome sight – Magnus Bulstrode, Millicent’s broad-faced father, eyed the people around him with disdainful eyes; Felix Greengrass, Daphne and Astoria’s father, was talking quietly with a sneering Nathaniel and Priya Nott, Theo’s parents; Nora Parkinson, Pansy’s mother and another of Narcissa’s more genuine friends, smiled shrewdly at the Malfoys as they made their way to Lady Zabini’s side. A notepad and quill hovered next to Lady Parkinson’s head – Pansy’s mother was Chief Editor for _Witch Weekly_ , and while a criminal trial was not the usual content of the gossip magazine, every single publication would be releasing an article on the trial of such an influential man as Lucius Malfoy.

“You took your time, Cissa,” Adrienna Zabini greeted. Her Italian accent lay thick over her words, and her teeth glinted white behind dark lips drawn into a smile.

Harry bowed respectfully as Narcissa had taught him, and tried to silence the warning alarms signalling ‘danger’ in the back of his head.

“We’re hardly late, Adrienna,” Narcissa replied primly, and air-kissed Lady Zabini’s cheeks.

Harry zoned out from their conversation as he took his seat next to Draco. He was more interested in subtly watching Draco’s face in between keeping an eye on the many high society witches and wizards surrounding him. Draco’s expression remained clear and motionless, replying politely to his mother or Lady Zabini when spoken to but otherwise silent. His grey eyes, however, were flecked with well-hidden fear. Harry glanced down at the distance between their palms and wished, desperately, to reach out and take Draco’s hand within his own – to offer some comfort, any comfort, anything at all. He clenched his fingers to avoid the impulse, and looked away.

Even if Harry hadn’t taken to watching the door as the minutes ticked away, it would be impossible not to notice when the man of the hour arrived. The heavy wooden doors of the courtroom opened with a thud, and Lucius Malfoy stalked forth with curses in his eyes. He was escorted by a sombre looking auror on either side, and a soft golden light encircled his wrists. The light was no metal chain, but Harry thought it looked just as confining.

Draco had gone stiff as a board to Harry’s side. Slowly, and as subtly as possible, Harry shifted one knee to press against Draco’s. The other boy made no visible response, but Harry still hoped he had helped in some way.

The trial itself was brief. Ginny Weasley gave her memory and her testimony – her eyes shone with tears but she stood as tall as a twelve year old can. Harry was almost impressed.

Lucius’ lawyer was good; deft with her words and charming in a way Harry could only describe as ‘slimy’, she succeeded in refuting the need for the use of veritaserum upon her client. It wasn’t enough, however – when the time came for the vote, Lucius Malfoy was found guilty at two-thirds majority, and with a snarl he couldn’t quite conceal on his face, the Malfoy patriarch was led from the courtroom.

Draco let out a barely audible sigh, and Harry allowed himself to relax.

Narcissa made her goodbyes brisk though no less enchantingly polite, and the trio made it out of the courtroom without incident – and with zero comment to the insistent journalists being barely held back by Ministry security – but their luck did not hold.

Shockingly enough, it was a familiar face that stopped them, one that would have at any other time been most welcome, and she wasn’t looking for the Malfoys.

Gemma Farley approached the trio on brisk feet, her wild dark curls held back from her face in a sensible (though of course still fashionable) updo. Gemma had graduated at the end of the previous year, and while Harry knew she had accepted an internship offer in the Ministry of Magical Law Enforcement, he hadn’t know that she would be starting so soon.

Gemma bowed respectfully as she reached them. “Lady Malfoy, Heir Malfoy, Heir Potter,” she greeted.

Harry couldn’t quite resist raising one eyebrow. Seeing his ex-prefect bow in his general direction was a surreal experience, and not one he could say he enjoyed. He was distracted from the strange feeling, however, by the gentle rush of a spell being cast over his person – a privacy charm, if he wasn’t mistaken. His gaze on Gemma sharpened. Harry hadn’t even seen her wand move, but he didn’t doubt it was her. What could she need to discuss with them that was so important as to require a privacy charm?

“If I could borrow you for a moment, Lady Malfoy?” Gemma asked. “All three of you.” She looked uncharacteristically serious, and Harry had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t simply because she was on the job.

Narcissa raise one perfect brow. She had close to a foot on the ex-prefect and was capable of the most intimidating glance Harry had ever seen, but Gemma wasn’t cowed. His respect for Gemma kicked up an extra notch.

“Can this not wait, Miss…?”

“Farley, ma’am, Gemma Farley. I was a prefect for your son and Hadrian at Hogwarts, and,” she lowered her voice, “I believe this will be relevant to your concerns, if you’ll excuse my boldness - particularly Hadrian’s.”

Narcissa pursed her lips. “Hadrian?”

Harry looked up at her, startled, before he realised she wanted him to decide. He barely hesitated, before simply saying, “I trust Gemma.”

Gemma gave him a quick smile.

Narcissa nodded. “Very well. Lead the way, Miss Farley.”

Gemma led Harry and the Malfoys a small way away from the courtroom, down one of the narrower hallways on the tenth floor.

Once they had a little more privacy – though the charm was not revoked – she relaxed slightly and turned to Harry.

“Hadrian,” she said, eyes concerned, “They won’t announce this until tomorrow, but I thought you deserved to know first. From what I hear, it affects you pretty directly.”

The bad feeling in the pit of Harry’s stomach got heavier. “What is it?”

Gemma put one hand on his arm. “It happened yesterday. Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban.”

Narcissa inhaled sharply.

Draco’s eyes widened. “What do you mean ‘escaped’? You can’t just escape from Azkaban!”

“Are you certain?” Narcissa spoke quickly. “Absolutely certain?”

“Absolutely. No one knows how he did it, but he’s loose, and word in the department is he’s going to come for you, Hadrian.” Gemma squeezed his arm worriedly. “They’ll be sending a force of dementors to Hogwarts if they don’t catch him before the break is up.”

Harry shook his head. “Wait, who is Sirius Black? And why would he be coming after me?”

“I quite think that’s a conversation for when we get home, dear,” said Narcissa, before fixing her stare on Gemma once more. “This is a substantial favour you’ve done for Hadrian, Miss Farley.”

The rest of her sentence went unspoken: _What will you expect in return?_

Gemma lowered her head respectfully once more. “Hadrian’s a good kid, Lady Malfoy. Call it fraternity between housemates.”

Narcissa didn’t seem convinced, but she nodded nonetheless. “Very well. If that is all, Miss Farley, Hadrian, Draco, and I will be returning to the Manor.”

“Of course.” Gemma dropped her hand from Harry’s shoulder but gave him a small smile. “Stay safe, kid.”

Harry was still confused. Who the _hell_ was Sirius Black? And why was it always him evil wizards were after? First Voldemort, now an escaped convict – Blaise was going to be _furious_.

Narcissa placed a hand protectively on Harry and Draco’s backs and guided them out of the hallway with quick steps – unfortunately, because this was Harry’s life and nothing ever went smoothly, they only made it a few feet into the main corridor.

Narcissa’s hand clutched tighter to the back of Harry’s robes. “Headmaster.”

Dumbledore smiled congenially at the trio. “Hello, Narcissa.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us, Headmaster, the boys have had a trying day.” Narcissa smiled gently, though her eyes remained cold.

“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Dumbledore nodded. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to take young Harry off your hands.”

“Oh?” Narcissa’s tone was mild, but her gaze could turn a man to stone.

“I’m sure this will be news to you, Mrs Malfoy,” – Draco’s own glare turned icy at the surely intentional term of disrespect to the Lady of a Noble House – “But a man who may be dangerous to our young Harry here has just recently escaped his confinement. The best place for him right now is with his family – I’m sure you understand.”

Narcissa’s expression perfectly mimicked surprise. “Oh my,” she said. “That’s perfectly awful! I can assure you, however, the wards of Malfoy Manor are far more advanced than the protection of any muggle residence.” She avoided putting any inflection on the word ‘muggle’, but Harry thought Dumbledore could taste the disdain anyway.

“Ah, that may be so,” the Headmaster smiled again, “But nothing is stronger than the bonds of family, don’t you agree? You are, after all, not Harry’s mother – I’m sure the comfort of his aunt and uncle will be quite strong enough.”

Harry almost winced. Dumbledore certainly wasn’t pulling any punches.

Narcissa’s mask, however, didn’t faulter. “Yet Harry is like one of my own. I’m sure you feel something similar for the charges that pass through the halls of Hogwarts, Headmaster – unless, of course, you are busy with your other duties on the Wizengamot. Your priorities, there at least, are quite clear.”

Dumbledore’s mask wasn’t quite so strong as the Lady Malfoy’s, apparently. The twinkle dropped from his eyes. “I’m afraid I must insist, Narcissa. We may ask Cornelius, if you’d like to be certain, but I rather think he’s had quite enough dealing with Lucius’ unfortunate arrest, don’t you?”

Harry swallowed. Pulling the ‘I’m on good terms with the Minister of Magic’ card – Harry could already tell this wasn’t going to any well.

So could Narcissa, it seemed. She conceded defeat with a slight incline of her head, yet when she looked at Harry there was a vicious promise in her eyes. She dropped gracefully to her knees in front of Harry, just as she had that morning.

“I’ll see you soon, Harry dear,” was all she said, but it comforted Harry more than words could say. Gently, Narcissa petted his cheek, and then stood.

Draco looked about ready to yell at Dumbledore himself, but a staying hand from Narcissa kept him silent. Instead, he clutched Harry’s shoulder under his palm. “It’s not long to go, now,” he said.

Harry nodded. Only a few weeks and then they would be at Hogwarts again – but what about the summer after that? He thought he had been free – had gotten too optimistic, to believe himself rid of the Dursleys for good. This, the Headmaster’s interference, was a harsh clap back to reality.

 _‘Life_ ’, Harry reminded himself, _‘Isn’t fair.’_

At least he would have the memories of his time at the Manor to hold with him. Memories of Narcissa’s tender hugs, and Draco, sleepy and softer than Harry had ever seen him at Hogwarts, greeting him in the mornings.

The Dursleys would be hard pressed to break him with those images in his mind.

“Come along, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

Harry took a quiet breath, and allowed Dumbledore to lead him away.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters, genealogy, and life back in Number 4, Privet Drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a filler to be honest, sorry! I know it's been a while. But less than a year which - hey, isn't bad for me. See the end notes for some rambling background info that has no relevance to the story, but which I think about a weird amount.

Harry drifted into consciousness slowly. The more sleep slipped from his mind, the more apparent it became that Harry’s bed was oddly uncomfortable. And he was cold – the Manor was never cold.

“Dilly?” he mumbled into the dark. The Malfoy house elf assigned to Harry and Draco had popped into his room every morning that Harry had stayed in the Manor – whether he wanted her to or not, actually, but he’d gotten used to it. Where was she?

Squinting into the dark, Harry leveraged himself up on the lumpy mattress and cast an arm out for his glasses. The mahogany bedside table should be to his right, with his wand and his glasses and the cup of cold water that Dilly always refilled during the night-

The tips of Harry’s fingers touched cheap plastic, and the memories of the day before crashed into him like a freight train. Lucius Malfoy’s trial, Gemma’s warning, and Dumbledore. Dumbledore ripping the warm safety of the Manor from him with unrelenting cruelty wrapped in twinkling eyes.

Harry promptly flopped back down. The mattress groaned and took revenge via a loose spring stabbing into his shoulder.

Gloomily, Harry thought back to the crushing events after the trial the day before. Dumbledore had apparated them to Little Whinging, upsetting Harry’s stomach even more after the emotional shock.

(The last time he had been side-along apparated, Harry had recalled through the daze, had been with Narcissa, to that very same street. Maybe it was just because Narcissa had been such a comforting presence, but he hadn’t felt so nauseous when it was with her.)

The Headmaster hadn’t seemed to notice Harry’s mood. He chattered non-stop as they wandered down Privet Drive, the broomsticks on his robes whizzing about merrily. If he noticed the nosy, disapproving faces peering through the windows at them as they passed, he hadn’t mentioned it.

Number 4 had drawn nearer with all the cheer of a mausoleum. It lay identical to every other house in Little Whinging, and yet the sense of despair it dredged from Harry’s bones made it stand out almost as much as Dumbledore did. Standing out – the Dursleys would certainly hate that.

Dumbledore hadn’t even gone up to the door. A quick, encouraging pat to Harry’s shoulder, he had wished Harry farewell and simply watched him approach the house. Harry wanted to scream at him. He wanted to kick and punch and drag the Headmaster into Number 4 so he could see exactly why Harry couldn’t stay in that awful place. And yet, even as the rage built in his blood and the drooping tulips on the lawn began to shake, the cooling suspicion washed over him that Dumbledore already knew. Perhaps not the extent of what went on behind the pristine suburban façade of the Dursley home, but he had spoken to Petunia at least once. He had to know that the Dursleys did not want Harry – had never wanted him, and had made that perfectly clear in Harry’s lifetime. Maybe, Harry had thought with hatred ashen in his mouth, Dumbledore just didn’t care.

Harry sighed, and pushed the memory away. He dragged the single threadbare blanket the Dursleys had given him further over his chest. Outside the world would be warming up, summer in Surrey humid and bright, but inside was still cool from the night time chill. Harry missed the Manor and all its inhabitants like a lost limb.

He didn’t rush to go downstairs. The one improvement on his life with the Dursleys was that Narcissa’s visit the previous year had stuck vividly in his aunt’s mind, and with that plus Harry’s own wand still on his person, Vernon and Petunia seemed (begrudgingly) willing to leave him alone. No more making breakfast and receiving only scraps, no more of Vernon’s heavy fists, no more working all day cleaning and gardening only for Petunia to berate him for a missed square inch. He was trapped in this place, but he wasn’t weak. Not anymore. His friends had taught him that.

Whether Dudley had also got the memo remained to be seen – Harry’s cousin hadn’t been home when he arrived, likely out with his gang of bullies, and Harry had stayed in his room ever since. Small victories; the welcome he had received upon his return to Number 4 was quite awkward enough. Petunia had pursed her already pinched lips at him and then pointedly ignored him in favour of her magazine, and Vernon hadn’t seemed able to decide between being smug at Harry’s misfortune or furious that they hadn’t gotten rid of him for good. Ultimately though, they both let him be, and Harry was grateful. He felt stronger in the face of his aunt and uncle than he ever had before, thanks to his time at Hogwarts and the support of his friends and Narcissa, but he had no intention of testing that resolve against Vernon’s anger anytime soon. Even if the Dursleys didn’t know it, Harry’s wand was useless in the Muggle world until he came of age at 17, which made him defenceless. The thought made his skin crawl.

 _‘Maybe not entirely defenceless,’_ Harry thought, recalling his desperate escape the previous summer. The sight of the bars outside his window, twisted and warped from where the force of Harry’s magic had crashed into them from within, was still lodged in the back of his mind. The idea that he had done that – that he was capable of such impact – was both thrilling and a little terrifying. His embarrassing explosion in his first year dredged up similar feelings, particularly in that the latter ended with him in the hospital wing. Two years at Hogwarts and Harry was quite sick of the amount of time he had already spent under Madam Pomfrey’s care.

There was always wandless magic, but the older Harry got the more difficult the little tricks he had practiced before he started Hogwarts became to perform. Something about losing an instinctive link to your magical core - Hermione had been very interested in the subject last year, and Harry remembered her talking about it, but honestly he’d stopped paying attention in favour of a funny face contest with Pansy across the library table. (Pansy had won, but she’d cheated; she’d nicked a sweet from Tracey that made her nose glow blue, then stretched her tongue up to it and crossed her eyes in a particularly gormless manner. Millicent had let out a startled laugh at the sight, and Harry hadn’t been able to resist joining in. Lesson learned – in a contest with a Slytherin, never expect them to fight fair.)

Harry was dredged from his reminiscing by an insistent tap at the window. The sight that greeted him in the dawn light had Harry out of bed in a heartbeat, snatching up his glasses and fumbling with the latch in his rush to yank the window open.

Hedwig hooted joyfully as she soared into his room, dropping her cargo onto his bed before landing atop the rickety chair in the corner. Her cage with her usual perch had been left behind at Malfoy Manor, but she made do. Harry couldn’t hold back his wide smile.

“It’s so good to see you, girl,” he told her, stroking the soft feathers of her head affectionately. Hedwig preened under the attention for a moment, before haughtily dismissing him in favour of cleaning under one wing.

Harry gave her one last gentle pet before turning to the parcel on his bed. He couldn’t fight the swell of happiness in his chest at sight of his name printed in Draco’s characteristically perfect cursive on the top letter. Even here, in the cold dread of Privet Drive, his best friend made him feel warm. The grin on his face was goofy and certainly embarrassing, he knew, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care.

The parcel turned out to be three letters and a miniature trunk. The trunk Harry recognised as his own, much to his relief – a brand new model, recently gifted by Narcissa for his 13th birthday. It was magically bigger on the inside, and charmed to shrink and enlarge at the tap of his wand and a password. At Narcissa’s suggestion, Harry had set his password in parseltongue, though the word itself wasn’t particularly inventive. (‘Fraternity’, and Lord help him if Millicent, Blaise, or Pansy ever found out – they’d never let him live it down.)

Aside from the letter from Draco, the other two were penned with a different hand. Even without deductive reasoning, the style of lettering was too stunningly perfect to be by anyone other than Narcissa Malfoy. One was addressed to him, and the other, to Harry’s utter shock, bore the name Petunia Dursley. Harry couldn’t imagine what Narcissa would care to say to Petunia, given the plain disdain he knew she held for his aunt. Likewise, he couldn’t imagine what would possess Aunt Petunia to read such a letter – although on second thoughts, Narcissa _had_ made quite the impression upon their meeting the year before. Even without the deep respect Harry held for the Lady Malfoy, he had no intention of ever crossing her and considered anyone who dared do so to be incredibly stupid. Petunia, if she had any sense at all (which Harry thought she must, given her and Uncle Vernon’s change in attitude since Narcissa’s visit) would have realised that.

Despite his burning curiosity, Harry opened the letter from Draco first. He snorted at the opening lines.

_Dear Harry,_

_I’m not sure who was closer to hexing the old coot yesterday, Mother or myself. Perhaps if the opportunity arises we shall have to take turns – after yourself, of course. How dare he! Mother was furious, and so am I. He’s the bloody Headmaster for Merlin’s sake, but it’s never been clearer how little he cares about students. Sending you back to those filthy muggles – what was he thinking? (I won’t apologise for the phrase this time, Harry, I know you don’t like it but if anyone deserves it, it’s those savages.)_

_Mother was making Floo calls well into the night after we returned to the Manor. Have no doubt Harry, she will find a way to return you to us. We will get you out of there. I promise. Besides, the Manor is dreadfully dull without you._

_The house elves packed up your things into your trunk, but Mother has added a few extra items from her own collection. All carefully warded of course, so never fear about the muggles’ sticky hands. Mother says you may find a few of them to be ‘an interesting read’, whatever that means. Sometimes I believe she would have done well in Ravenclaw. Merlin, don’t ever let her know I said that._

_The mirror I gave you is in your trunk, too, but Mother says not to use it. The Trace shouldn’t pick up on mildly magical artefacts like a communication mirror, but it gets odd around muggles, and with Dumbledore watching there’s no telling what lengths they’ll stretch the law to. Opening and closing your trunk is about the extent of what you can do in that foul muggle neighbourhood. Mother says, ‘pushing boundaries right now would be unwise’, however much of a shame that is._

_Truly though, be very careful, Harry. I know it’s difficult for you, but do try to stay out of trouble while I’m not there. Write me whenever you need. Especially write me if those muggles try something – anything at all. I want to help._

_Three more weeks, Harry. You can make it. I’m only a letter away._

_~~Yours~~ Warm Regards,_

_Heir Draco L. Malfoy_

The letter, Harry found, was so very _Draco_ that it almost overwhelmed him with fond emotion. One night, and already Harry missed his best friend terribly. He missed all of his friends, and he missed Narcissa’s gentle guidance, and he missed Hogwarts, and magic, and the freedom that lay outside Privet Drive. He had to wait a moment to count deep, even breaths as Tracey had taught him to do when he got overwhelmed, but once he was ready, he moved on to Narcissa’s letter.

_Dear Hadrian,_

_The injustice of this latest manipulation is inexcusable. I swore to keep you safe, to protect you and never allow your return to that horrid place. In the face of my failure I can only apologise, and give you my word, if you still accept it, that by next summer things will be very different._

_You need not be concerned over reading freely the letters from myself and my son – they are warded to the highest order against prying eyes, though I would warn against using details in your replies, considering the Trace restricts you from warding your own. Do not fear replying - there is nothing that the Headmaster may do to disallow correspondence. Dumbledore is a powerful man, but he is not so powerful yet that he may restrict mail between school friends._

_In regards to the news from Miss Farley, I have taken the liberty of adding a few key books to the collection in your school trunk. Read them carefully, dear – you will find the answers you seek for this matter within those pages, however distasteful those answers may be._

_You may also notice I have included a letter to your unfortunate aunt alongside Draco’s and my own. I ask that you deliver this simply to Mrs Dursley. The words within are for her eyes only, Harry. Deliver the letter straight to her._

_Know that I am always available to listen, dear. You have been an invaluable friend to my son, and while it is not possible for now, the doors of our home will continue to welcome you. Your room here will always be simply that – yours, open to you whenever you may desire to use it. I hope, once this mess is dealt with, you will desire to use it again._

_Warm Regards,_

_Lady Narcissa Malfoy_

Narcissa’s letter, to Harry’s surprise, caused even more of a tightness in his chest than Draco’s. Malfoy Manor had enough rooms for half the population of Hogwarts to reside in without the Malfoys themselves even noticing, and yet the idea of his room at the Manor remaining _his_ despite his not residing there was almost painfully heart-warming. It said that he was wanted – indefinitely, even. It said that he belonged somewhere other than Hogwarts. It said that his absence was recognisable, beyond some drooping tulips outside a house where he had always been unwelcome.

Deep breaths. Tracey would be proud.

Once Harry was certain that his knees would not buckle, he stood, and took up the letter addressed to Aunt Petunia. He was almost unbearably curious to read it. It was warded, probably, with similar privacy charms to the ones Narcissa said she had placed on the other letters. But the temptation to check…

In the end, it was Harry’s own respect for the Lady Malfoy that led him to not open the letter. She had asked him not to, after all, and he couldn’t bear to imagine having the depths of Narcissa’s disappointment directed his way. Still, something told him it was best to get the letter delivered quickly. A glance outside revealed the sun had risen into the sky. Petunia would almost certainly be awake, making breakfast for her family – Harry, of course, not included.

Best to get it over with. Then he could return to his room and spend the day devouring whatever books Narcissa had sent him, to see what information he could find on one ‘Sirius Black’. Harry figured there was something smart in learning everything you could about the latest psychopath trying to kill you. Briefly he considered what it said about him, that so many people wanted him dead – but that was probably a rather dark path to go down, so he decided to ignore it instead.

Aunt Petunia, as Harry had predicted, was frying eggs when Harry found her. She startled at the sight of him, like he was an apparition rather than her nephew, and her lips screwed up in that way they did when she saw something distasteful.

“What do you want,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Harry held out the letter. Petunia looked at it, but did not reach out.

“What is that,” she said.

“A letter,” said Harry. “From Narcissa Malfoy.”

Petunia went quite pale. She looked from him, to the letter, then him, then the letter. She swallowed.

“It’s for you,” Harry prompted. He wiggled the letter a little; Petunia twitched.

Possibly, Harry thought, he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. The disdain in his aunt’s eyes hurt, still – it certainly cut far deeper than Harry wanted it to – but there was a touch of fear there, too. If Harry ignored, for a moment, that tiny part of him that still wished desperately for any inkling of affection from his closest living family, he could acknowledge that Mrs Dursley being frightened of a simple letter was pretty funny.

Although, knowing Narcissa Malfoy, fear was quite probably an appropriate reaction.

Petunia opened and closed her mouth several times, but finally seemed to give up on finding a way out of the situation. She took the letter from Harry’s hand with carefully pinched forefinger and thumb, holding it between her nails like it was about to explode. Harry stayed where he was.

Petunia glanced at him again. A strangled noise escaped her throat once she seemed to realise that Harry had no intention of making a retreat just yet. With careful fingertips, she opened the letter.

Harry already liked Lady Malfoy, but his affection for her skyrocketed at the journey Aunt Petunia’s face went on while her eyes scanned whatever Narcissa had written.

If she had been pale before, Petunia became as white as the paper she held now in one death grip claw. Her other hand shot to support herself upon the kitchen bench as she swayed dangerously in one spot. Her eyes flicked wildly down the single page, and she let out a single sound best described as a squeak.

Harry resisted the urge to smile. Perhaps it made him a bad person, but he had spent so long feeling terrified of Aunt Petunia, of Uncle Vernon and Dudley and that awful, awful house. He was still afraid – but it was satisfying, to some dark part of himself, to see them afraid, too.

He left Petunia there, still clutching the letter, with the smell of burning eggs in the air.

The books that Narcissa had sent for Harry turned out to be on magical family trees. A simple guide for reading magical genealogy charts; Wilmott the Wild’s self-updating _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ , that Tracey had used when searching for a link between Harry’s family line and the line of Slytherin; and two hefty tomes entitled _Moste Sacred Blood, Vol. 4_ and _Moste Sacred Blood, Vol. 5_ , a series which covered the family trees and connections of every family in the Sacred Twenty Eight.

Despite Draco’s pride on the Malfoy’s inclusion in that elite list, Harry wasn’t convinced. Hermione in particular had been disgusted upon discovering _The Pureblood Directory,_ the book first listing the twenty eight magical British families who were supposedly still ‘truly pure’ in the first half of the 20th century. Quite aside from the fact that the list itself represented intense bigotry (as Hermione had passionately explained to Neville, who had appeared slightly scared but supportive), it was refuted by many scholars for the apparent lack of reasoning behind which twenty eight families were chosen. The Ollivanders, Harry recalled, were included despite having a muggleborn in their line, while the Potters, who were by all counts ‘pure’ (though pro-muggleborn rights) were not.

Harry wasted no time searching for the surname ‘Black’ in _Nature’s Nobility_. He found the family line easily – the Black family, apparently, were a prominent pureblood house. No Sirius was listed, though some spots were darkened, almost burned off the page. What Harry did find was a small, familiar portrait atop a familiar name – the still picture of Narcissa Malfoy nee Black stared up at him from the page. Undeniably, it was her.

Was this, then, the ‘distasteful’ answer Narcissa had said he would find? Were she and the murderer out for Harry’s blood related? Yet, why was there no Sirius Black on the family tree?

The magical genealogy guide brought some sense to the image. The blackened spots on a magical family tree were disownments. Harry glanced back to _Nature’s Nobility_. The page listed Narcissa as having two siblings – one, a woman with wild dark hair, listed as ‘Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black’; the other was unknown, lost beneath a scorch mark. Was that Sirius Black? Was he Narcissa’s brother? But then why was he disowned from the family? Because he was in Azkaban?

Harry was frustrated when he turned to open _Moste Sacred Blood, Vol. 4_. Again, he found ‘Black’ in the directory without issue. Unlike _Nature’s Nobility_ , _Moste Sacred Blood_ was not charmed to be self-updating and rather came out in volumes. The earliest of the two Narcissa had sent dated ten years before Harry was born. There were no portraits in this book – just layers upon layers of tiny, cursive script. Harry squinted at the page until his eyes watered. He found Narcissa’s name first, though even that took close to an hour. She was bookended by her siblings, the woman named Bellatrix on one side and-

Not Sirius Black on the other. Harry didn’t know who Andromeda was, or why she would eventually be struck from her family tree, and at that point he really didn’t care. The words on the page were so cramped, finding Narcissa’s name had seemed impossible, let alone another. Harry looked up from the book with a sigh. The bedroom door was blurry. He blinked to readjust his eyes, but succeeded only in worsening his headache.

A break was in order, he decided. Maybe he could pen a letter to Hermione, asking how she dealt with the eye strain of reading considering how often her head was in a book. The thought of squinting at yet another piece of paper made him wince, but at least it wouldn’t be so crowded with tiny lettering. Sighing again, dramatically, Harry dropped his head back to the book, ready to close it and try again later.

And promptly stopped.

His eyes had fallen, quite perfectly, atop the name ‘Sirius Black’.

Harry had to put genuine effort into stopping himself from jumping with glee. Instead, he very slowly brought one finger up to mark the name, careful not to move his eyes away instinctively. Once he had placed it directly above his nail, he traced the connective lines from Black’s name to Narcissa’s. Cousins – that wasn’t too bad. Harry didn’t know what Narcissa had been so worried about; it’s not like Harry had any place to talk when it came to extended relatives.

After marking the convict’s name with a stray piece of tape, Harry moved on to _Moste Sacred Blood, Vol. 5_. He found Narcissa again, and carefully followed her line to- a scorch mark. Harry furrowed his brow. So Sirius Black had been disowned sometime in the decade before Harry was born – but why?

Now that he knew where to look, finding the same names in the brightly coloured (and much more clearly laid out) _Nature’s Nobility_ was a piece of cake. Sure enough, there was the scorch mark indicating where Sirius Black’s name used to be. Only next to it in this book was a tiny symbol. A quick flick through found the appendices in the final pages, and then all Harry had to do was match the symbol and finally get some answers.

Well, the note provided one answer, certainly. There in black ink was the reason why Sirius Black was disowned from the Black family tree.

 _‘Consorting with blood traitors,’_ read the book, and then: _‘See: House Potter.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I only mentioned this briefly in the chapter, but if anyone is interested, my ideas on wand usage vs. wandless magic are basically that a wand allows for better refinement of a spell – makes it easier to control how strong the spell will end up, where it hits, etc. (e.g., a bombarda cast at a cup with a wand by a reasonably talented wizard channelling a small amount of force can be used to explode just that cup, but the same spell cast wandlessly with the same intended amount of force by the same wizard has a much higher chance of exploding not just the cup but the table it’s sitting on too). The reason young witches and wizards have better chances of successfully using wandless spells before they are educated with a wand is because their magic is still running almost entirely on instinct and imagination – as you age it becomes more difficult to access that imagination and that instinctive link to your magic, so wandless magic becomes harder and casting spells becomes more academic / intellectual than it is instinctive. It is possible for a grown wizard to learn to cast wandlessly after being trained with a wand, but it requires a very strong force of will to direct the spell and channel the correct strength into it, and most wand-trained wizards just don’t bother because generally the main advantage of casting wandlessly is in battle – something they don’t expect to be engaging in very often, if at all. Wand usage isn’t universal in the wizarding world, however – various cultures around the world don’t use wands to cast and grown adults trained this way have no difficulty. The difference there is that the spells created in wand-using cultures are designed for use with a wand – they require a certain amount of specificity and refinement that generally relies on a wand being used as a channelling tool. Wandless culture spells are not created with wands in mind, and so require less specificity and focus / rely more on intent within the caster. Both have advantages and disadvantages, neither is ‘better’, they’re just different. I imagine that generally wanded spells are more useful for delicate work, while wandless spells have more power behind them so can have a bigger impact because they aren’t designed to need to pass through a channel - there is no instrument in the way of the magic and the target. This doesn’t mean wandless spells can’t be used delicately and wanded spells can’t be insanely powerful, it’s just a little more difficult. None of this is really relevant to the story, I just like thinking about it. Ok that’s enough of me nerding out! I have no idea if JKR wrote anything on the subject and if I’m contradicting her at all, and frankly I don’t give a shit lmao.
> 
> Anyway, next time Aunt Marge comes to visit!


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